


When The Little Hand Is On The Four

by maaaaa



Series: Puffer Bellies [4]
Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23556208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa
Summary: Jim and Blair deal with day-to-day life after Blair suffers a brain injury.
Series: Puffer Bellies [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695412
Kudos: 5





	When The Little Hand Is On The Four

**Author's Note:**

> My “Puffer Bellies” series was written between September 2007 and July 2009. It is a WIP that was never quite finished. The stories stand pretty well on their own, but should be read in order.

It was getting close to four-thirty.

And just like every other day since Jim had returned to work and Blair had started the afternoon job, Jim was stuck to his desk like glue at this time of day.

He hadn’t taken any new cases of his own yet, wanting to take his time to settle into the routine again, as well as leave himself available if Blair needed him. He spent his afternoons going over cold cases, or out on calls with H and Rafe if they wanted another pair of eyes and ears at a crime scene or an interview. But he was always back in the bullpen by four-fifteen at the latest, so he could glance impatiently between the clock and the phone, waiting for it to ring.

Like he was doing now.

At four thirty-two the phone rang. Jim snatched the receiver on the first ring and spoke crisply, “Ellison.”

The anxiousness receded from his features immediately as he listened for a moment and then spoke again. This time his voice was warm, grateful. “Thanks Mrs. Silva.” Another moment and then, “You too.”

He hung up the phone and the clock watching began again, this time in earnest.

The next call always came between fifteen and twenty minutes later...the time it took for Blair to walk the six blocks from Silva’s market to the loft, depending on whether or not he dawdled, or the traffic lights were with him, or he stopped to look at something of interest in a store front, or chatted with one of the kids he knew from the apartment complex a block from the market if he reached the school bus stop when the kids were pouring off.

This wait was always more tense and Jim passed the time today, as he did every day, by shuffling folders, or drumming his fingers against the desktop, or projecting stay away vibes to anyone coming within spitting distance.

Jim hated this part of the day.

Once Blair arrived at the loft and called Jim to check in, he could relax and finish out his day knowing Blair was safe and secure, instead of imagining every possible thing that could’ve gone wrong between the market and the loft.

Simon found an excuse to come out of his office and plant himself at the side of Jim’s desk, like he did every day at this time.

“Anything on the Trade Emporium heist?” he asked today.

Jim rubbed the back of his neck and scrubbed his face with both hands, working his fingertips up over his cheeks and massaging his brows. He made a pretense of flipping through the papers in his cold case basket before answering.

“I think Mrs. White did it. In the study. With a candlestick.” he answered wryly, cracking a smile.

“Can’t just say no new leads?” Simon replied, just as sardonically.

Jim shrugged unapologetically and leaned back in his chair, letting it tilt with his weight, and started swiveling back and forth.

They spent the next fifteen minutes making small talk. And then it was twenty minutes; and then it was thirty and then it was forty-five.

Jim grabbed the phone and dialed the loft. “Come on, Chief, pick up,” he muttered into the mouthpiece after it’d rung three times on the other end. He looked at Simon. “This happened once before, remember?” As if he needed to convince Simon there was nothing to worry about. “Last Tuesday. He had to use the john as soon as he got home and forgot to call.” He did a fair job at sounding unconcerned… until the answering machine kicked in.

He’d tried several times, unsuccessfully, to show Blair how to replay messages, so leaving one now would be useless.

Instead, once the recorded greeting stopped and the beep sounded, Jim shouted into the receiver, “Blair! Pick up the phone. It’s Jim buddy! Pick up the phone!” He kept it up until the allotted time expired and he was cut off.

“Damn,” he swore softly. He ran tense fingertips over tightly closed lips, concern now clearly etched on his features.

“Go,” Simon said, urging Jim to his feet, as he swung round to face the bullpen. “H, Rafe, start at the market and work your way outward six blocks in all directions.”

The two men had been listening, knowing the daily routine and picking up that something was amiss, and were just waiting for the word to help out. “Already on it, boss,” Henri answered for them both as he grabbed his jacket and hurried out the door behind his partner.

“I’ll see if there’s a black and white in the area,” Simon added, “and have them pitch in.”

Jim was punching his arms into his coat as he walked briskly toward the swinging bullpen doors, hot on the heels of the two other detectives. “I’ll call you when I get to the loft. If he’s not there,” his voice cracked a little, “I’ll backtrack to the market.”

~*~*~

Jim knew before he turned the key that the loft was empty. He made a cursory sweep anyway before dashing back down the steps and out onto the street. He pulled his cell phone out as he trotted along and gave Simon the news.

“H and Rafe haven’t spotted him yet either,” Simon informed him. “He probably just got distracted,” he added helpfully, “you’ll probably find him gawking at that stupid street musician that set up near the park. The one he was so excited about the other day who plays all that sixties stuff.”

“I hope so Simon,” Jim answered before snapping the phone shut.

The musician was belting out a nasally rendition of ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’, butchering both it and his lame attempt at impersonating Dylan.

But Blair was nowhere in sight.

So Jim sniffed the air. He’d committed Blair to sense-memory…he’d realized one day as if it was the most natural thing to happen. And each day he adjusted Blair’s unique baseline scent to whatever additional scents…deodorant, aftershave, shampoo, clothing, breakfast…overlaid it.

When he reached the bus stop he caught the first whiff. He stopped, stood stock-still for a moment, then slowly turned three hundred and sixty degrees, his eyes shut, concentrating on both scent and sound.

Blair had been here; Jim was sure of it. But his scent trailed off in two directions; one, back toward the market, and the other down the nearby side street.

‘It’s that little shit Trevor Smith’ Jim thought as he headed off. ‘Always waylaid Blair even before the injury, asking a million questions. Blair told me just yesterday how Trevor wanted to show him something at the, at the, damn! What was it?’ Jim jogged along, trying to remember, and thinking of ways he could get away with strangling an eleven year old.

His phone rang just then, before he could plot Trevor’s demise.

“Ellison,” he answered in a clipped tone, not slowing.

Simon’s voice, filled with relief, came back, “A black and white found him, Jim. They’re bringing him to the station.”

Jim halted and let Simon’s words register before he answered, “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine Jim. The officer said he just looked confused. Didn’t want to get in the car with him at first. And wouldn’t, until they patched through to me and I told him it was okay.”

“I’ll be right there,” Jim replied tersely.

~*~*~

Jim made it to the station in record time. He burst through the bullpen doors and brushed past H and Rafe.

Simon was talking to the patrol officer, nodding his head and saying things Jim didn’t pay attention to. Blair was seated at Jim’s desk, with Rhonda next to him, her arm around his shoulder, fussing over him.

Jim beelined straight to Blair, who jumped to his feet with a huge grin on his face at the sight of him.

Before Blair could say a word, Jim caught him up in a hug, squeezing him hard, and then let go and immediately clasped his upper arms tightly, holding him out at arms’ length as he shook him.

“Are you all right?” he demanded harshly.

Blair frowned, scrunching his face. “I’m---,” he began uncertainly.

“Where’d you go?” Jim cut him off with another shake. “Do you know how worried I was? What you’ve put everyone through?” He was shouting, his voice sandpapery as he jerked his head toward the bullpen at large.

Blair’s face started to crumble, as Jim’s stern words hit home. He blushed as he realized everyone in the bullpen was staring at them.

“Jim!” Simon interjected sharply, quickly stepping away from the patrol officer and grabbing his arm.

Blair wriggled out of Jim’s hold, with assistance from Simon’s pulling at Jim. He gave Jim a nasty look, not understanding his anger.

Not wanting Jim to say or do anything more stupid than he already had, Simon dragged him to his office, ignoring his protests. Shutting the door with deliberate force, Simon turned on Jim.

“What the hell?” he hissed demandingly. He regretted it almost instantly as he saw Jim deflate, recognizing the outburst of few minutes earlier for what it really was…absolute fear, not anger.

Jim looked through the blinds at Blair.

He was sitting again, chewing his lip and glancing nervously toward the closed office door periodically as he fiddled with a button on his shirt. H and Rafe joined Rhonda, and though Blair looked at them dubiously, he didn’t resist their sympathetic attention. He was taking short, deep breaths, apparently trying to keep from bursting into tears.

Jim felt like a jerk. He blew out a long, slow breath, breathed in deeply, and then let it out again.

“I was so scared Simon,” he finally admitted.

“I know,” Simon replied softly.

“Look at him, as if he wasn’t already feeling mixed up enough, I show up and lay into him,” Jim berated himself.

Simon slugged him on the arm. “It’s okay. He’s okay. It’s one mistake. You’ll work it out with him. Now get back out there and let him know you’re not mad at him,” he ordered in a firm, gentle voice.

Jim steeled himself and stepped out into the bullpen. He’d only taken a few steps when Blair looked up again. Jim was ready to say something, to apologize and explain calmly and rationally why he was upset.

But Blair had other ideas. Apparently, he had been ready to burst, but not into tears. He picked up a book from the desk and leapt out of the chair. He barreled toward Jim, meeting him halfway. He stepped in close, got right up into his face and jammed a finger into his chest.

“I don’t like it when you yell at me like I’m a little kid,” he asserted indignantly, his eyes flashing angrily. He stopped abruptly, thinking about what he’d just said and then added accusatorily, “You shouldn’t yell at little kids either.”

Flustered, Jim looked around, ready to deny he ever did any such thing, but Blair wasn’t finished.

“I went to the library.” He held up the book he’d grabbed and shoved it into Jim’s face. “See?” he challenged. “Trevor helped me remember where it was.”

‘ The library…good god…eight blocks from the bus stop. It might just as well be eight miles. Thanks a million Trevor.’ Jim thought unkindly.

Jim stared blankly at the book in his face, and then around it to look at Blair, who seemed more pissed than someone who’d supposedly been on the receiving end of a reprimand should.

“You didn’t call,” Jim scolded feebly, aware all eyes were now on him. “I thought you were lost. You told the officer you were lost.”

“Excuse me?” the patrol office cut in. Everyone’s attention moved from Jim to the man now speaking. “Um, actually he never said he was lost. I said he looked confused.”

Blair nodded excitedly, his outburst already forgotten. “Yeah. I didn’t know him.” He pointed helpfully at the patrol officer. “And I didn’t do anything wrong. And you,” he swung everyone’s attention neatly back to Jim, “said I should never get in a car with someone I don’t know.”

Simon sidestepped away from Jim. He closed a tight fist over his mouth, barely suppressing a grin.

Jim gave Simon a venomous glare, then regained his composure and attempted to retake control.

“You’re supposed to go straight home after work and call me,” he clarified in a calm, steady voice.

“No.” Blair shook his head adamantly.

“No?” Jim repeated, clearly surprised by the response.

“I’m supposed to call you when I get home,” Blair said, emphasizing the when. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as he struggled to remember the exact agreement. “You never said I have to go straight home.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed to slits, crinkling with amusement.

“Semantics?” he asked in disbelief. And then stated softly, as if to verify it in his own mind, “You’re arguing semantics.”

“Huh?” Blair responded.

“Never mind,” Jim said, shaking his head and grinning, giving in with good grace in the light of Blair’s reasoning. They’d have to adjust now to allow for trips to the library, or other meanderings…on some sort of schedule if Jim actually managed to get a say about it.

But Blair using semantics was enough to make Jim’s day, so he put that discussion off for the time being.

He nudged Blair and started shooing him back toward his desk.

“I’m not a little kid, and I’m not smart like I was, but I’m not stupid either,” Blair said fervently, the words rushing out.

“You’re right, Chief. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

Jim waited patiently, hoping Blair was going to ream him out a little more, or elaborate on his right to make his own decision about going to the library and being able to negotiate an additional eight blocks without difficulty. But he could see it in Blair’s eyes, the moment he lost his train of thought.

Instead Blair asked enthusiastically, “Wanna see my book?” as he showed it to Jim once again.

“You bet Chief,” Jim answered easily. “How about when we get home?”

He took a minute to glance around the bullpen, nodding his thanks to their friends as he and Blair headed toward the elevators.

He knew he was still going to hate four-thirty.


End file.
